Work Text:
When Narcissa saw her precious boy lying in the school infirmary, wrapped in gauze already soaking through with blood, she didn’t scream at first. The reason was simple: a Malfoy never screams their grievances out loud. That’s a weakness reserved for the Mudbloods and the lesser ones, festering her perfect world with their flawed magic.
Tonight, though, she just stood, all will to live abandoning her at the sight of Draco so battered, so close to the brink of death. She just remembered in that moment, the first time she cried as a grown woman. It wasn’t on her wedding day or the day Draco was born. That happened the first time her precious, at four, tumbled off the broom Lucius had insisted he tried. Draco had sustained a head injury, and Narcissa had cried indignantly until the Healers of St. Mungo’s reassured her that this was just a minor incident.
Malfoys are proud and strong, her husband always told her. They shared that sentiment: Purebloods were invincible, and nothing -no one- could stand in their way to greatness, as the Dark Lord had already proven by returning.
…But if this was true, why was Draco lying there, pale and unconscious? Why did that waif of a boy, Potter, have to be the one to bring Draco into this situation?
“Narcissa.”
A single word, quiet and measured, pulled her out of her frantic thoughts. Severus’ hand touched her shoulder -careful, as if he was trying not to break her-, and she realised that she was clenching her hands so hard on her robes it hurt. The patronus that had arrived in her house, just as she was getting ready to rest, was a dove with Madam Pomfrey’s signature; apparently, he had urged the matron to let Narcissa sneak into the castle so she could see her son.
“He will heal,” the Potions Master continued. His voice sounded measured as usual; to the untrained ear, it sounded like that of a man certain of the ground he was standing on. But Narcissa had seen Severus as a boy, working his way up from a neglected youth to the man he is now during his years at Hogwarts, and she knew that something about him didn’t sound as confident as she’d like. He might be one of the most intelligent men the world has known, but in this little wavering of his voice, Narcissa remembered that he was also Draco’s godfather, practically family to the boy.
Narcissa didn’t respond to Severus’s attempt at reassurance. She kept on watching the pale, unmoving body on the infirmary bed. So fragile, like a reminder that Purebloods aren’t the gods she was indoctrinated to believe.
“This was your spell, Severus, wasn’t it?” she asked, without turning to face the man standing right behind her, towering over her as he observed the morbid scene before them. “That…that Sectumsempra you made because of Potter. That was it, wasn’t it?”
Severus made a sound that sounded a bit like remorse, and just then, Narcissa noticed him.
The Potter boy. Standing in a corner, with blood stains on what should be a pristine white shirt. Looking at Draco’s unconscious body with a shell-shocked expression.
Before Severus could stop her, Narcissa lunged at the boy, gripping him by his lapels. The boy staggered, unable -or, perhaps, unwilling- to resist as Narcissa shook him hard, the infamous Malfoy composure completely gone.
At this very moment, she wasn’t an unruffled Malfoy, or an invincible Pureblood. She was a mother forced to see her only son hanging by a thread.
“See what you’ve done, boy?” she hissed, adjusting her position so Potter could see his handiwork up close and personal. “Hmm? Do you feel you’ve gotten your revenge now?”
Her ears were ringing, the wave of fury in her preventing her from hearing clearly. She could only barely register Severus’s urging her to stop, and the boy’s stammering. Later, she would compartmentalise this moment, realise that he probably didn’t know the extent of the damage he had caused to her treasure.
Right now, she was this close to using the spell on Potter in return.
“Look at him,” she hissed. “Take a good look, go on! I swear to whatever god listens, that if anything happens to him, you'll prefer the Dark Lord to end you before I do.”
A strangled moan interrupted Narcissa's fury, as Draco stirred slightly. The woman left Harry so abruptly that he stumbled and was held on his feet by the Potions Master.
She rushed to her son’s bedside and cried. Her tears hit the sheets, a bitter reminder of the lie she's been fed all her life: if Purebloods were so invincible, why was she watching her boy struggling to cling onto life itself?